


Her Sister's Shadow

by sunkelles



Series: Requiem for Reigns [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Femslash, I don't know if it counts, Implied Relationships, Necromancy, Necrophilia, Sibling Incest, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:39:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1728041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana sits upon Camelot’s throne. After she killed Merlin, conquering Camelot was easy. But she’s lonely. She brings Morgause back as a shade, but finds that what is lost can never truly be recovered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Sister's Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> So I thought of the concept for “Kinslayer” and I was thinking of Morgana ruling Camelot afterwards. I couldn’t imagine her as evil and happy without Morgause. Then, I saw the episode with Lancelot and this little plot bunny happened.  
> Also, I have an original character in here that may or may not have a crush on Morgana.

Camelot is easy enough to conquer. Emrys is dead, and Arthur soon follows him. Arthur has always followed Merlin, as Merlin has always followed Arthur. Without them, it isn’t difficult. Soon enough she sits upon Camelot’s throne.

 

Morgana is aware that she should be happy. Morgana hasn’t felt happiness in so long that she has forgotten what it feels like. Winning her throne sent a flurry of emotions through her: triumph, vengeance, and relief, but happiness was not one of them. Morgana’s happiness died slowly, first with her father, then with the discovery of her magic, and then the last bit of it died with Morgause.

 

The execution of the knights of Camelot brings her no more joy than murdering Arthur brought her. She sticks a sword into Agravaine back because he implies that he is her only loyal subject, but it doesn’t bring her happiness. She thinks that it might, but it doesn’t, no more than the death of the knights or Gwen or Arthur or even _Merlin._ Not even carving a term only he could deserve into his dead back brings her any bliss.None of these things make her happy. It does not bring her joy to bring great magic users to her court. None of them care for her, except as the queen who brought magic back to Camelot.

  
The people despise her. She knows it, and truly, she cannot completely blame them. She knows that they loved Arthur, and she knows that her actions have been nothing that would warrant their love. She has killed their king, their knights, and servants. The crown is heavy upon her head. Not even the looks of fear her court sends her sate her.

 

She does not truly want to be feared. She wanted to be loved. She still wants to be loved.

 

But sadly, that ship has sailed.

 

It sailed when she betrayed Camelot, or maybe, when she killed Merlin.

  
It sailed when she was born with magic.

 

 _No_ , she thinks, _it sailed when she killed Morgause._

 

She knows that in a different life, she would have been happy in Camelot. She and Arthur would have bantered until the end of their days. Merlin would have cared for her. She and Gwen would have shared confidences forever. But that would have been in a world where she did not have magic. Where she wasn’t herself, because Arthur hated her for her magic, and Gwen loved Arthur. And Merlin? Morgana did not understand Merlin. All that power, and he played servant to Arthur, who would have sooner seen him burn at the stake than be himself. But Morgana understands one thing. She understands that this happiness wouldn’t have been genuine.

 

Her best path to happiness had been Morgause. Morgause was the one who taught her how to use her magic and who accepted her. Morgause was the sister who loved her for who she was. It was the closest that she had come to true happiness, but then she was ripped away from her.

 

So Morgana asks her court of mages about returning people from the dead. The flatters say that she need not bring back the dead for they love her enough. Morgana knows these to be lies. The fools say that they can do it easily. Morgana knows that these are also lies. The only reasonable answer comes from a young witch from the border of Odin’s kingdom. Her hair is a long mess of sunny blonde. Her name is Ella, like the light her hair resembles. She says that the only way to bring back the dead back is through a long process in which the person returns as a shade. Ella says that it is not worth it, and warns against it. She says that the person will not truly be herself. She warns that the shade will not satisfy the queen’s thirst for companionship. Morgana says that she will try anything. The girl sighs, but gives her instructions.

 

Soon, she has Morgause back. She is born from a lake ignorant of the way things were. Morgana feels the tear drops flow from her eyes. She seizes her sister and engulfs her in a hug.

“My lady,” she says, her tone much more unsure than Morgause’s had ever been, “who am I?”

“You are Morgause Le Fey,” she says, trying to hold in her tone, “and you are my sister.”

“Yes, my lady,” this empty version of her sister replies.

“Please,” Morgana says with a strained quality to her voice, “You always called me sister.”

“Yes, sister,” she says. It is not the same. Morgana’s heart drops. She doubts if it will ever be the same. She will not stop, though. She supposes that a shadow of her sister is better than nothing.

 

The shade of her sister learns quickly. She can soon perform magic again, and is winning sword fights against Camelot’s greatest knights. When she calls Morgana sister, it has the same scandalous and loving quality that it once did. Morgana is starting to lose herself in this caricature of love.

 

She tells the people that her sister was simply away for many months. Her council of flatters and fools says no differently. The only one who knows better holds her tongue, because she knows if she speaks out she’s bound to lose it.

 

The queen’s sister takes to wearing her armor most of the time, except for feasts, when she wears a long, crimson gown. She is the most fearsome woman in Camelot, an example for the entire country to follow. Countries are quick to make alliances with Camelot. Her strength and that of her mages is well-renowned. Her queen is infamous for the fratricide she committed to gain the throne. Some throughout the countryside call her the “Witch Queen” in whispered tones, but they know better than to say it loudly. Her sister might chop off their heads. The lords comply with her rule, though some will never think of her as anything but the bastard queen. It does not matter, as long as they don’t rebel. They know they could never win.

 

“Kiss me,” Morgana tells Morgause after a tournament. She kisses her softly, lovingly, like she would have before. Morgana kisses back more fiercely, ignoring the faint scent that lingers in the air. Their gowns are soon discarded for the night and Morgana is lost within a sea of feverish touches. Afterwards, as always they share the queen’s bed.

 

Morgana tells her sister of the things that they once did. She tells her of their meeting, their months spent together as Morgause taught her magic. She tells her of Uther Pendragon, of Gwen and Arthur and _Merlin._ She soon starts to forget that it’s not actually Morgause, that this shadow will never truly be her sister.

 

“My lady,” Ella says one morning after training with the magical guard, “you must remember that she is not truly your sister. She is a shadow.”

“I do not care,” Morgana says, “I need her. Don’t you see?”

“I do,” Ella admits, “But it will be your undoing. Shades are bodies, not souls. She is not truly your sister.”

“Yes she is,” Morgana says, “Don’t you dare suggestion otherwise.”

Ella is silent a moment, and quiet when she finally says, “If you do not start caring for the living, you will be left with nothing. The people fear you. They do not love you.”

“Be silent,” Morgana orders, “be silent, Ella, or I will cut out your tongue.”

“My lady,” she braves, “I worry about you.”

“Oh let me guess,” she says, “you are my only loyal subject?” She has heard this speech before, from Agravaine; she does not care to hear it again.

Ella bites her lip, “I worry about you, my queen. If you let yourself dwell in your past, you will lose your future.”

“That is ridiculous,” she says, “I will hear no more of it, Ella.” Ella says nothing more of it, though she wears her worries on her sleeve, though. Morgana ignores her and finds solace in Morgause.

 

They nightmares begin soon afterwards. Terrifying images of Camelot burning, and of Morgause’s skin melting from her body emerge. She awakes screaming and Morgause pulls her into her arms. Morgana feels slightly less worried.

 

Rebellions pop up around the country. Some peasants feel that they are not being protected. Some feel that she that she a true queen because she killed her brother to take the throne. Some simply fear her because of her magic. Morgana is not afraid of executing peasants. Most face hanging, but those who speak against her because she has magic, those are the ones that burn.

 _It’s a sort of just deserts,_ she thinks _, that they would face the death so many with magic faced._   Morgause supports her, just as she would have. Ella just bites her lip as she looks on with a terrified look.

 

Many mages leave, after that. They can’t stomach what needs to be done, and Morgana does not mind their absence. They were never any help. They do not have Ella’s aptitude for magic. And they are not Morgause. They do not matter enough for Morgana to miss them.

 

Her dreams increase in frequency, and they are always the same. They depict her kingdom burning, Morgause melting. They show Ella mourning afterwards. She curls up in Morgause’s arms, and the world seems a bit brighter.

 

The threat does not come from Arthur’s supporters, or even from Uther’s. It comes from her own people, druids, magic users, _the ones who should have supported her._ It angers her in a way no betrayal, sans Merlin’s, ever has.

 

“Please,” says the first, “give up the throne of Camelot.”

“Oh of course I will,” she mocks, “I’ll give up my birthright.”

“It’s not your birthright,” he says, “it never has been.”

“It has _always_ been my birthright,” Morgana responds.

“It was Arthur’s,” the man says sadly, “It was his, and Emrys’ destiny to bring a golden age to the land. To finally bring Albion. You have brought about hell, Morgana Pendragon. We’ve come to put an end to it.”

“I have brought a golden age,” she proclaims loudly, “I have brought magic back to Camelot! I have brought peace to the land, the people love their queen.” Even as she says the words, she knows that they are not true. She can still hear Ella’s words: _The people fear you. They do not love you._

“You have killed those who have spoken out against you,” he says.

And then he looks her dead in the eyes, his dark brown ones meeting her green, “Your reign has been less peaceful than Uther’s. You are truly his daughter.”

“You dare compare me to him-“ she starts.

Ella enters the room, “My lady. What’s going on?”

“We are being invaded,” Morgana says, “Alert the populace.”

“Yes, my lady,” she says, her voice tight. Traitors pour in seemingly through the crevices in the castle walls. Morgana knows that they are using the tunnels that she once used. It’s ironic, that the same tunnels she used to win her kingdom were being used to take it away. Morgause simply stands there. More druids pour into the throne room.

“Help me,” Morgana says. Morgause draws her sword.

“You truly are sick, Morgana Pendragon,” he says, “you brought your sister back as a shade?” Morgana does not respond, but summons her magic.

The man in front starts to draw his own as his eyes went. Morgana tosses him backwards into the wall. A woman in tattered grey gown chants. Morgana tries to conjure something to stop her, something to get her out of the room, but she finishes her spell. Morgana knows that spell. It is the one used to kill the undead: zombies, immortals and _shades._

She looks back to Morgause in horror. Her sister’s skin is melting away like wax.

“Morgause!” she hears herself scream. She grabs her sister, but her candle-wax flesh falls through her fingers, forming a puddle on the ground.

“Do not toy with the laws of nature,” the woman says.

Morgana can feel her eyes turn gold. She does not know what she does to the woman; she knows only that her body falls to the ground. People pour into the room quickly, hurling spells irresponsibly. Morgana knows that this is how she will die, and she vaguely regrets. She regrets, and then, she knows no more.

 

 

 

 


End file.
